


Rolling Under The Stars

by moderatelybowling



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beat Generation, Getting Together, Living Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moderatelybowling/pseuds/moderatelybowling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically a 1950s AU where Illya is a Beat, Napoleon is an ex-businessman, and they share an apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rolling Under The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> so i was going slowly insane while writing a research paper on jack kerouac and then i found [this picture](http://www.davidmccallumfansonline.com/moreebayfixes/C06.jpg) of david mccallum basically looking like the definition of a Beat and then this just kinda happened

Napoleon makes his way up the stairs to his apartment slowly, his feet dragging on the worn, scuffed wood of the hallway when he reaches his floor. The door is open when he tries the knob, like he knew it would be. He hears the familiar, soft sound of a warped jazz record playing as he locks the door behind himself, pausing with his hand still on the deadbolt when he hears a quiet accented voice call out.

“The prudent carries a revolver. He bolts the door, overlooking a superior spectre more near.”

He turns, raising an eyebrow at Illya, who is lying on the mattress shoved into the corner of the apartment. His eyes are closed, a cigarette dangling from one slender hand, the other laying flat on his chest. Napoleon watches as the smoke trails upwards to the ceiling, swirling and catching the late-afternoon sun.

“Will you ever stop quoting Dickinson at me? She’s not even your favorite poet.” Napoleon hangs his coat up on a hook, kicking his shoes off and padding over to the mattress in socked feet.

“Never,” Illya replies, shuffling over to make room for his friend. 

Napoleon lets out a sigh of relief as he lays down, feeling the tension of the day slowly start to leave his body, dissipating into the air like the smoke from Illya’s cigarette. Illya finally opens his eyes to turn to him, his gaze soft and concerned.

“Bad day?”

Napoleon chuckles at that, reaching over to grab the cigarette, taking a drag and passing it back over as he replies. 

“I feel like I’ve been run over by a steamroller. Remind me again why I’m working at the docks?”

“I assume that it has something to do with the fact that you quit your well-paying, comfortable corporate job because it wasn’t ‘spiritually fulfilling’,” Illya replies, a fond smile on his face. Napoleon tries his best to ignore the feeling in his chest, like his heart is too big for his ribcage. He’s been getting that feeling more and more around Illya lately. He turns his gaze away from his friend, focusing instead on the chips and cracks that litter the ceiling.

“When did I start caring more about that than money,” Napoleon mutters to himself, taking the cigarette when Illya passes it back to him. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Illya’s smile grows wider, continuing to ignore the wild beating in his chest.

“I believe it was around the time you realized how unhappy you were, sold your apartment, and moved in with a Soviet, my friend.”

Illya shuffles closer to Napoleon on the mattress as he speaks, an unthinking and unselfconscious movement. He settles back down pressed up against Napoleon’s side, his ankle hooked casually over Napoleon’s. Napoleon stiffens, failing to hold back his wince at the obviousness of his discomfort. 

One of the things that Napoleon had been most surprised about when he really got to know Illya was how _tactile_ the younger man was. Their relationship had started off normal enough, just a friendship between a weary businessman and a quiet, intense bookstore clerk who had happened to hit it off. Their friendship had grown slowly, Napoleon coming into Illya’s shop to mindlessly browse the sections as the younger man sulked nearby. They had eventually started talking during Napoleon’s visits and those talks had grown into meeting up in beaten-down coffee shops, which had turned into late night philosophical debates on Illya’s couch. 

It was during those quiet, dark hours spent on the beaten up, overstuffed sofa that Illya had truly opened up to Napoleon, his stony outward demeanor crumbling as he talked about jazz and philosophy and religion, his eyes lighting up and his hands waving as Napoleon took in every word, replying with his own thoughts and feelings, high on the feeling of being so open with another human being. It was then that they had truly come to know each other, their mutual trust so deep that Illya felt no reservations touching Napoleon openly, whether it be a tap on the shoulder or plastering himself to the larger man’s side, claiming that the apartment was too cold. 

Napoleon had found Illya’s tactility odd at first, not used to touching other men in any context other than sports, where any physical contact was brutal and demanding. With Illya, though, the touches were tender and soft, affection shining through as Illya brushed up against him whenever they walked side by side. Napoleon had eventually grown used to the physical attention, and had even learned to welcome it.

He had never doubted that Illya’s touches were purely innocent, even after hearing the younger man rant about the fluidness of sexuality, his face open and trusting as he urged Napoleon to understand how twisted and cold modern society’s views of sexuality and romance were. Napoleon had blushed at Illya’s openness about the subject, but had tried his best to understand, asking Illya a barrage of questions about his sexuality and beliefs, trying to understand his friend as deeply as he could, no matter how hot his cheeks flamed as they spoke. 

He had accepted Illya’s beliefs without a doubt in his mind about the nature of their relationship, knowing that Illya saw him as a good friend and nothing more.

However, as the weeks went on, Napoleon began to doubt his _own_ feelings about his friend. He wasn’t quite sure if it was completely normal for him to feel the things that he felt around Illya, if the tightness in his chest and the sweating of his palms meant what he feared it meant. He had started unconsciously shying away from Illya’s touches, trying his best to ignore the issue, hoping it would go away.  

Obviously, it hasn’t. 

Back in the present, Napoleon consciously tries to loosen his muscles, but he knows that the damage is already done. He feels Illya stiffen, too. He closes his eyes as he feels the bed shift, listening as he hears Illya sit up and put his cigarette out against the floor. 

“Napoleon.” 

Napoleon doesn’t respond, keeping his eyes shut tight, hoping that he can just wish himself out of the situation.

“ _Napoleon_ ,” Illya repeats, more insistent this time. Napoleon sighs in defeat, opening his eyes and pushing himself up to sit cross-legged on the mattress, facing Illya.

“What is it, Illya?” Napoleon asks, staring down at his knees, cursing himself for being so obviously uncomfortable.

“Napoleon, look at me.” Napoleon looks up reluctantly, meeting his friend’s worried blue eyes. “What is wrong, my friend? You’re worrying me. You’ve been distant. Have I done something to upset you?”

Napoleon considers lying, claiming stress from work or a lack of sleep, but he knows that Illya knows him far too well to fall for it. Illya would probably let it go anyway, but he knows how hurt his friend would be if he knew that he had lied. Although Illya hates the moniker, he’s is as Beat as they come. He’s always tried to be as open and honest as possible with Napoleon, and has only ever expected that Napoleon try to do the same. He’s not sure that he could stand to see the disappointment in Illya’s eyes if he were to lie, so he takes a deep breath and bites the bullet.

“I’m sorry that I’ve been worrying you, Illya. It’s nothing that you’ve done.” He takes another breath, steeling himself for what he knows he has to say. “I’ve been... I’ve been having some identity issues.” Illya frowns, leaning forwards towards Napoleon in worry.

“What kind of identity issues?” 

Napoleon feels his face heat up, ducking his head down again to hide his blush as he mumbles his answer. 

“Issues of sexuality, Illya.” He glances up nervously when he hears Illya inhale sharply, worried at what he’ll find on Illya’s face. He knows that Illya is open to sexual deviance in theory, but that doesn’t mean that he’ll be comfortable in sharing an apartment with someone like Napoleon. 

Illya looks surprised, but not disgusted, still leaning towards Napoleon and staring at him with his wide blue eyes.

“...Is there anyone in particular that has been causing you these worries?” Napoleon winces, his blush deepening. 

“There... there might be someone in particular, yes.” His voice comes out quiet, his nervousness apparent. Napoleon sees something flash across Illya’s face at his response, but it’s gone before he can try to figure out what it means, Illya’s face carefully blank, his eyes unreadable.

“I see. So you are interested in someone, and are uncomfortable with me being so close to you, since I am not them. I do not want to cause you any more discomfort, my friend. You do not have to worry anymore, I will find somewhere else to stay.”

Illya starts to get up, moving away from Napoleon, not noticing the obvious panic that has overtaken his friend. Illya had completely misunderstood Napoleon, and now he’s moving away from Napoleon, and trying to _move out_. Without thinking Napoleon grabs Illya’s arm, tugging him back towards him, ignoring Illya’s surprised sound was he stumbles forwards back onto the mattress, falling so that he’s kneeling right in front of Napoleon, their faces mere inches from each other.  

“Napoleon, what...” Illya trails off, taking in the look on Napoleon’s face. He repeats his name again, softer this time, a look of confusion crossing his face. Napoleon acts again without thinking, tugging Illya forward with a hand fisted in his sweater, crushing their mouths together. 

Illya gasps in surprise against his mouth, and Napoleon pulls back quickly, shocked at what he’s done, taking in the look of shock on Illya’s face. He curses his impulsiveness, realizing that he’s managed to ruin the most important relationship in his life within the course of ten minutes. He starts to stutter out an apology, desperate to salvage what little he can of their friendship.

“I’m so sorry Illya, I know you don’t- I’m sorry, oh god-” His rambling his cut off when Illya launches himself at Napoleon, pushing him back against the mattress as he straddles his hips, both hands planted next to Napoleon’s head. Napoleon blinks up at him, shocked at the wide smile he sees slowly spread on Illya’s face. Before he can even think about asking what the _hell_ is going on, Illya is lowering himself down to press their lips back together, kissing Napoleon. It’s the nicest kiss that Napoleon has ever received, Illya’s mouth moving slow and sweet against his.

When Illya finally pulls back, all Napoleon can do is gaze up at him, dazed. Illya just looks content, smiling down softly at Napoleon as he speaks.

“I’m guessing that I misread the situation before, yes?” Napoleon nods back dumbly, still unable to form words. Illya looks smug. “So you have been nervous because I’m the one you’re attracted too?”  His grin grows wider when Napoleon nods again, clearing his throat nervously before finally speaking. 

“I, ah, from what you just did, I assume that it won’t be a problem?” He feels the tension start to leave his body again when Illya laughs, grinning back up at the smaller man as he leans down again, catching his mouth.

Illya doesn’t pull back as he answers, mumbling against Napoleon’s mouth.

“No, my friend, I don’t think it will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> bonus [move!illya](http://66.media.tumblr.com/195f7fff7afedad0a3d6f292e5dc9461/tumblr_nvy63fc4pv1qlenpco1_500.png) dressed like a beat, for all your beat!illya needs
> 
> (also the title's from kerouac's _On The Road_ , which i highly recommend if you're looking to feel horrendously pretentious and intellectual for a few weeks)
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


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